


Let's Give It a Go

by imanadultiguess



Series: Bossy Omega Molly and Cuddly Alpha Mycroft [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Mycroft, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, F/M, Omega Molly, subversive ABO dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:37:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imanadultiguess/pseuds/imanadultiguess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Mycroft decide that after spending a few heats together, maybe they should give a legitimate relationship a shot.  It's hard.</p>
<p>Meant to be more comedic than angsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is T for Teen, but it definitely deals with some sexual themes...
> 
> Like, they aren't straight up going at it or anything, but we're talking about fake biology that makes people horny...so be forewarned.

Mycroft's hand trembled as he reread the unsent text he had typed out (and edited extensively) over the course of the last three hours. _Good lord,_ he scoffed internally, _is it really 3:15 in the morning?_

It had started out as a simple invitation to dinner but had quickly devolved into an explanation, an apology, a brief discussion of cultural norms, et cetera. Fifteen minutes ago, he'd deleted the parts where he mentioned his own sense of propriety was part of the reason he was asking, because couples that share heats multiple times typically _are_ in a relationship, but that societal constructs were often restrictive at best and oppressive and abusive at worst, and that truthfully he wasn't trying to dissuade her from going on a date with him, but that he honestly knew very little about her and her own sensibilities and morals, and he would appreciate the opportunity to learn more. Would Molly see this as overthinking his invitation or the ramblings of a socially disengaged Alpha who probably should remain above the rabble for his own safety? 

At one point, probably around 2:00, it seemed that an email would be an appropriate venue to extend his invitation as well as his apologies and musings. But email seemed entirely too formal when he was aiming for whimsy and disaffected. Of course, a 2,000 word text certainly didn't lend itself to whimsy. A phone call would be too intrusive, might seem demanding--and Molly, outside of her heats, was always so considerate and careful with the feelings of others. She might feel obligated to accept his invitation, and Mycroft didn't want that. Dropping by her office would seem desperate and quite possibly creepy. So...text message it was. 

_Molly, if you'd like to join me for dinner on Thursday at the Sketch, I'd very much appreciate your company. I have no intention of pressuring you, but I do want to express my interest and availability. If you are comfortable with our current arrangement, and nothing more, then I am as well. No reciprocation is expected, nor should it be, as I'm sure you know._

He nodded, pleased at the simplicity. It conveyed his meaning without being insulting or pressuring. He hoped. 

No, this was good. Maybe. Maybe this was idiotic. He blinked at the screen, tremor still very present in his hand. Should he let Anthea proof it first? He scoffed at the thought. What would she know? She was an Alpha with no time for or interest in romance with a penchant for one-night stands with silver-haired Omegas trying to squeeze every last bit of experience out of their heats before they hit menopause. 

_Caring is not an advangtage,_ he told himself for the umpteenth time that night. 

_Molly is an assest,_ he countered. _She saved Sherlock, helped keep him and his secret safe for three years. Keeping her close and happy_ is _advantageous._

_Servicing her heats repays any debts you may have incurred or will incur in the future. Dating is an unnecessary complication of an otherwise appropriate relationship._

Mycroft didn't have an answer for his own reasoning. He considered deleting the text and forgetting the entire endeavor. 

No, he'd spent the last three hours composing this damned message, precious time he could have been working on Iranian negotiations. He wouldn't end the night with nothing to show for it. 

He hit SEND. 

Damn. Now he had to wait until she awoke. 

_______________ 

Molly reread the text over and over again over her bowl of cereal, trying to read it in his tone, trying to decipher the subtleties in his word choices. Was he asking because he felt obligated? Did he legitimately want to meet up or did he just want to spare Molly feeling like a slag? (If the latter was true, he certainly needn't worry because if anyone was the slag in their arrangement, it was _him_.) Was he feeling sluttish and needed to validate their couplings with a date? Was he interested in pursuing a relationship outsider of her heat? Or did he simply want to discuss the logistics of her next heat? Did he want to end their current arrangement? Had she hurt him too badly last time? Those bruises hadn't faded quickly, according to John Watson. Had the brolly pants really angered him? Maybe he'd found another Omega who didn't lose his or her mind during heats... 

Did she even want to find out what he meant? If he wanted a relationship, was that something she wanted? If the emotional aspect failed, would he want to discontinue servicing her heats? Was that something she wanted to risk? To date, Mycroft had been the most satisfying lover she'd bedded. Did he want her to be less violent? In theory, she wanted that herself--she never wanted to be seen as brutish or sadistic--but she couldn't stop herself in practice--Mycroft Holmes cried out too prettily. 

Why the hell was he awake and texting at 3:15 in the morning? Molly wasn't a Holmes but she could deduce that if he was texting her that early in the morning, she was likely weighing heavily on his mind. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? 

She sighed. She looked down at Toby, who was purring lazily on the floor. "Perhaps it _is_ time to go on suppressants, Tobes. Dr Collins seems to think it would be a good idea." 

"There's no reason for an Omega to go into heat every two months, not in this day and age," the doctor had said, sternly. He was a Beta but was very passionate about minimizing Omega discomfort. 

These last four heats though.... 

They'd been mindblowing. Phenomenal. She didn't want to trade that in if she was honest. 

_Sure. Is everything okay?_ she texted back. 

She didn't have to wait long for a response. 

_I know very little about you, and perhaps it is my Catholic upbringing, but I feel guilty servicing your heats and knowing little more than your name. -MH_

Oh. 

That text hit her like a punch in the gut. Guilt. Mycroft's motivation for asking her out was guilt. Well, at least it was religious guilt. Moral guilt was less offensive than obligation guilt. Right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to explore their internal worlds as well as their outside actions. Hopefully it's not boring.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Attempt One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I tried really hard to show how the two of them aren't 100% sure what they want. Hopefully, you can see that. If not, sorry, Mycroft's and Molly's thoughts are going to be really contradictory all the time.

9:34 _What should I wear?_

9:50 _Should I buy a new dress?_

10:13 _How much should I spend?_

10:37 _Should I get a makeover?_

12:03 _Will they kick me out if I'm just wearing department store make-up?_

12:04 _With clothes, of course. I just don't know what names are appropriate with your crowd._

12:05 _Though that does sounds presumptuous, doesn't it? That you're taking me to some hoity-toity cafe. I'm perfectly fine with something less refined. Honestly, I don't even know what the Sketch is._

2:46 _I think Sherlock knows._

2:46 _No, it was just a sneeze._

5:00 _Where are you?_

5:05 _Why are you only available via text during heats and ungodly morning hours?_

5:14 _Oh my God._

5:14 _Have you changed your mind?_

5:15 _I mean, it's fine if you have. Just...let me know?_

Mycroft had only just opened the car door after a long interrogation when Anthea, not even looking up from her phone, piped up, "Your phone has been pinging all day, sir. I imagine you have quite a few texts." 

"For God's sake, Barry..." he groaned, removing a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe a fleck of blood off of his shoes. 

"It's Hooper, sir." 

Mycroft took his seat and shut the door, motioning for the driver to leave the premises. "Don't read my texts, Anthea." 

"Never, sir," she lied as she handed him his phone. 

The politician stared at the phone, nerves bubbling up in his belly. He couldn't read them. What if she was cancelling? What if Tom had come back around? Why would she be texting him all day? "What did she say?" 

"I wouldn't know, sir." 

"Don't lie to me." 

She shot him a cheeky and patronizing grin. "Never, sir." 

"Damn you," he growled. "What did she say?" 

Anthea sighed, still not looking up from her phone. "Read your texts!" 

His temper flared. "No," he clipped. 

"Because your nervous?" she teased. 

"Don't be absurd." 

She looked up for the first time, studying her boss with an air of superiority. The tips of the other Alpha's fingers brushed over his neck. "You're sweating off your concealer, sir." She started to blur the makeup over a bruise but he shrugged her off with a snarl. 

"Anthea," he warned. 

"She's just as nervous as you are, sir," she answered. "With all due respect, sir, Alpha up. You're embarrassing yourself. You're embarrassing me." 

Mycroft glared at her. "Sexism has no place in the future of the British nation." 

"Sorry, boss," she said, returning her attention to her phone, "I can't hear you over your mind reverting back to prepubescence." 

Mycroft stared daggers at her, but she took no notice. Mycroft ordered the driver to pull over. Anthea walked the remainder of the way to the office. 

________ 

_Perhaps the Sketch wasn't the best place to meet. -MH_

_Is it because you don't think I will fit in?_

_It's difficult to fit in with that crowd since they thrive mostly on gossip and bemoaning the working class. -MH_

_...so you think I'll embarrass you?_

_Heavens, no. I worry that they'll think you're an escort. You're young and beautiful, and, if you'll forgive my saying so, fertile. There's no feasible reason for you to be with an Alpha my age. -MH_

_Perhaps socially, but evolutionarily, there is. You're still slim, so you give the appearance of good health, though weight isn't always a good indicator. You look and behave like you are wealthy, too, and an Omega is predisposed to find a mate with greater resources and who lives long enough to age--it means you have good genes. I don't know if that helps, though...._

Mycroft smiled down at his phone. Molly wasn't as dim as his previous bedmates; perhaps that was how she managed to occupy his mind during her heats. He certainly appreciated her acknowledgement of cold, hard, biologically-sound facts. True, upbringing, societal rules, and past experiences greatly influenced a person, but biology just couldn't be completely discounted. 

His phone pinged again with another text from "Molly  <3." He loathed the "less-than-three" symbol, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to delete it. The effects Molly had on him were a mystery. That worried him. Mycroft Holmes didn't like not understanding, especially when it came to his internal world. 

_But really--an escort?!?!?!_

He swallowed, debating whether or not to send his next few thoughts. They were quite telling, and he wasn't entirely sure how much of himself he wanted to expose to Molly Hooper. He wasn't entirely sure how much of himself was unexplored. He spent very little time searching himself. Now, that he thought about it, what did he have to offer her? Biologically, he was a sound Alpha mate, but he couldn't offer stability. Or warmth. He had assets, true enough, but Molly didn't seem the type to chase after his funds. 

_She'll want love, Mycroft. Is that something you can give? Is that something you want to give?_ the bitter voice in his head asked. He didn't have an answer. 

Oh. Right. Hooper was still awaiting a response. 

_I fear I may be treading on thin ice. -MH_

_Have mercy. -MH_

___________ 

Molly's face burned bright read at the last text, and her stomach fluttered. 

"You all right?" Mike Stamford asked her, looking up from the test results. 

Molly nodded. "Mhm, yep." 

_I thought I was your Queen, not your escort._

_You are, Ms Hooper. -MH_

________ 

Unfortunately, That Particular Thursday, The Thursday of The Date, fell on the same day as a particularly nasty international incident went public, which meant that, despite his plans, Mycroft would be on-call. Anthea all but forced him to go, telling him to enjoy the date, that she would have the Prime Minister's back should things get worse, and that she would call him if his expertise was required. 

The politician knew that his expertise would, in fact, be required by the end of the night, but decided against cancelling his first non-heat with Molly Hooper. 

Molly hadn't had a great day, herself, having spent most of it in court, testifying in open court ( _where I can see the pain of the family, oh god, please don't cry, someone hug that man, he just lost his son for fuck's sake_ ) her autopsy findings. To make matters worse, a particular Alpha lawyer named Cortez was the accused's solicitor, and he made Molly's skin crawl. He'd stopped by her office a few times in the past year or so to intimidate her, to trip her up, and, if she was honest, he had somewhat succeeded. She didn't like making people mad. She didn't like to tell people things they didn't want to hear. But she would, because it was her job. 

When Cortez used his Alpha voice to question her, her primitive Omega brain wanted to snap back, "I could have you on your knees if I wanted you." The evolved parts of her brain wanted to inform him that his knot was not impressive enough to arouse her, much less intimidate her, that this was, in fact, the twenty-first century, and his archaic behavior had no place in a professional setting. Instead, she kept her cool and repeated the facts, careful to make sure that Cortez didn't trip her up. 

The Beta husband's illness was the result of a year-long poisoning. The same poison had been found in his wife's purse when he was hospitalized. No, she wasn't a detective, nor did the NSY employ her to handle forensics, but she did conduct the tests following his autopsy and he was poisoned by the same found in his wife's possession, so it was a fair assumption that she _did_ murder him. 

Watching the families' faces was the most heart-breaking. The accused's parents wept profusely, unable to even look in her general direction. Molly wanted to run to them and comfort them. The victim's children were studying the images of the poison found in their mother's purse that had been projected onto a screen for the jurors to see. She wouldn't know how the case ended for a few weeks in all likelihood. There were still a slew of other witnesses. She realized that meant this was far from over for the devastated families. 

Family seemed such a wonderful, terrible thing. It had the capacity to bring so much joy and so much pain. Molly thought back to her father had taken ill. Always the glue of the family, the typical Omega patriarch, he'd been kind and comforting until the pain medication left him too drugged to think. And when he died, her mother went to bed, and didn't get up for a year. 

It was nearly a quarter to six when she finally arrived home. Her head throbbed and ached, and she felt all-around gloomy. She didn't want to put on a nice dress that required "slimming-down pants" so that the silhouette was smooth. She didn't want to slip on itchy hose that would quite possibly rip before she made it out the door. She didn't want to reapply mascara or blush or lipstick or put on fucking high heels or switch out her Evee purse for a more "grown-up" bland black one. She wanted to slip out of her bra, throw on some pyjama pants and enjoy something sweet and alcoholic. 

But...she did want to see Mycroft. Maybe. Yes? She wanted to see where this went. And she wanted to see how those bruises and cuts were healing. Would it be appropriate to ask? 

She gulped down some aspirin and a cup of tea, and slipped on the simple black dress she'd bought for the occasion. Using a safety pin, she kept the still-attached tag inside the sleeve. "If this doesn't go over well," she told her cat Toby, "I'm taking this dress back. So don't rub on it." 

Toby wagged his tail unhappily, staring blankly at her. 

After she had reapplied her make-up and pulled her hair up in a bun, she studied herself in the mirror. 

"Fuck. Toby, do I look like an escort?" 

Toby meowed and walked away, tail high in the air. 

"Bastard."

_________ 

When Mycroft arrived at Molly's flat, he shivered, the heat of embarrassment rising from his chest up to his ears. He'd actually begged...he'd presented himself to be had...he'd crawled... _oh god, when was the last time she steamed those filthy carpeted stairs_? What was he doing here? He should be avoiding _her_ at all costs. Why couldn't he just...stay away? 

Her scent, vague and sweet, tickled his nostrils. Instantly, he felt something loosen in his posture. Had his shoulders just relaxed? His neck? He rolled his shoulders and his neck. He hated to admit it, but he felt marginally better simply being at her door. 

_Not healthy,_ he told himself. _You're treading on very dangerous ground, Mycroft. She'll get inside your head._

He steeled himself and knocked. 

"Just a mo'," came her muffled response. Something thudded against the wall, making Mycroft frown. When she opened the door, it was immediately apparent that she did not want to go. 

_Mildly swollen eyelids, she's been applying and reapplying make-up in haste; was running late, a sign that subconsciously she doesn't want to come with me; Frizzy, limp hair, she'd been stress-sweating; possibly dreading tonight._

His heart sank, and he silently cursed himself. He trained his features to stay still and even.

"Good evening, Ms Hooper. I've come to inform you that I won't be able to join you tonight, as you've no doubt seen the news regarding our mishap in Turkey, but please take the reservation as you see fit, and have a lovely night." 

_________ 

Opening the door to the sight of Mycroft standing there, prim and proper and Alpha-y, brought recollections flooding back from weeks prior when he'd arrived hard and eager to please, forgetting to knock. Even if he wasn't begging for her attention, seeing him made her feel a little better. He looked so handsome, and his neck and ears appeared to have healed just fine. Her scent was lingering on him after all this time, and she felt empowered, as though she had, in some small way, ensnared the Alpha. Claimed him as hers. 

And then his face had fallen ever so slightly. She saw the gleam in his eyes flicker out. A cold, professional smile tightened his lips. And then he cancelled their date. 

"Oh," she said softly. "You can't come in? Just for a moment?" 

"I'm afraid not. Work, queen, and country, and what not." He waved dismissively, turning to leave. 

Molly grabbed his wrist, tight at first until she caught herself, then she gentled her hold. "We can't reschedule?" 

Mycroft had stiffened in her grip, and now he freed his hand with a jerk. "I'm afraid not." 

Molly searched his eyes, sifted through his scent, hoping to find any indicator that she was misreading him or that he wasn't being truthful. It was harder, since they weren't bonded and pheromones and hormones weren't working to sync them together, but she could vaguely detect the odor of disappointment. Maybe. "Oh. Erm..." 

"Good night, Ms Hooper," he said again. 

"Wait, Mycroft, listen," she said as she followed him down the corridor. "Would you please listen to me?" He stopped and turned to face her, his expression one of mild annoyance, as though she was some lobbyist playing for his attention. "I'm very tired, and still a bit frazzled from work, and I'm shit at social situations sometimes--not like Sherlock, but in my own way." She bit her lip again, unsure how to continue. "Sometimes, it's just difficult to leave the flat, you know? So, so, if you're deducing --if you're seeing something on me the way you Holmeses do, erm, don't pay attention to it. Oh. That's presumptuous, isn't it? I didn't mean to insinuate--if you really don't wanna give it a try--that's fine. I'm not...." She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

The corner of his mouth twitched as though to say something, but he ultimately remained silent. 

"Are you angry?" she asked. She looked down, only to see that her shoes were mismatched. "Damn." 

"Why would I be angry?" 

His response infuriated the Omega. She gave him a pointed look. "Myc, that's--" 

"Mycroft, if you please." 

Molly snapped to attention, positively livid now. "My- _croft_ , I've put on this dress that I can't really afford, I bought new tights that make my thighs itch, I bought on this fucking lipstain that's not going to come off for another twelve hours, and I know my hair doesn't look great, but I didn't have time to shower, but at least I tried! Can you smell the amount of hairspray in my hair? 

"I am literally following every social construct to get your fucking attention, trying to be pretty and demure, and you just turn your affection off like a spigot. And that's not fair!" She covered her mouth, her eyes wide as saucers. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I don't mean to yell. I'm really a nice person. I'm sorry." 

Mycroft appeared just as shocked. He bowed his head slightly. "Yes, well, I hadn't taken that into account." 

"Let's go. Please?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments for +1 karma.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, the date fails, Molly considers being in a relationship with an egomaniac, and then Mycroft tries to talk to the Baker Street Boys about how to get Molly to agree to a second (first?) date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, you'll see them go on a date in the next chapter.

Unfortunately, as soon as Molly and Mycroft stepped outside of the apartment, their evening went to hell. The descent into hell began with Mycroft’s ringing phone.

Mycroft glared at the name on his screen. “Yes?” 

“Sir, there’s been a leak.” 

Mycroft eyed Molly, turning slightly and covering the mouth piece. “What do you mean?” 

“Our blue agent was captured by Moroccan intelligence. It appears he wasn’t as strong as we believed. This incident with the Swiss--he’s divulged a lot of information.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Is the information correct?” 

“The information he’s provided is, luckily, only the misinformation he was given. Regardless, I’m advising we withdraw intelligence agents out of Eastern Europe and Japan.” 

He sighed, trying to shake off the feeling of Molly’s eyes on him. “What’s gone public?” 

“All of it.” 

“How have the Swiss responded?” 

“Not well. Ambassador Curry soliciting illegal sex workers there damaged our rapport with them, but Blue’s told them he was put up to it by MI-5.” 

“Why would he tell terrorists though? What does he have to gain?” 

“His life, most likely, sir.” 

“Thank heavens we never told him the truth.” 

“How shall we proceed, sir?” 

Mycroft licked his lips. “How is the public handling this?” 

“Not well. Sweden is considering cutting off trades until the UK apologizes and our blue agent is promised immunity.” 

Mycroft swore. Sweden was the number one maker of heat and pheromone suppressants in the world. Even third-world countries, because of Sweden’s good will, had access to the medications for cheap or for free. If the Swiss discontinued trade, that would mean thousands of Alphas and Omegas… 

Mycroft swore again. 

Molly couldn’t wait any longer. “Um, Myc? Mycroft? Is everything ok?” 

Mycroft waved her off. “Um, excuse me,” she snapped. “I’m your date.” 

“Could you please hold on a moment? I’m trying to prevent a riot in the streets.” 

As he would soon learn, he was too late. A riot had broken out in Wales after several Omegas had dashed to their pharmacies and demanded prescriptions refills, “just to be safe.” Of course, refilling a prescription before it was time was against NHS protocols, and when the chemist said so, everything went downhill. 

When the media caught word of it, the news spread like wildfire, and soon mini-riots were breaking out along the UK, egged on by fear. 

“I’m terribly, terribly sorry, Molly,” Mycroft muttered, donning the Ice Man mask. “Duty calls. I’ll set up another date.” He rolled his shoulders and set his jaw, taking a deep breath and thinking of creative ways to dispose of their Blue Agent. 

_________ 

Molly shut her eyes, torn between relief ( _yay, I can put on my pyjamas and take off my bra!_ ) and disappointment ( _he’s cancelling our date…_ ). Of course, she knew his work would always come first, that he was an important man. It was just a bit...unnerving how quickly he was able to cut her out of his periphery. One minute he’s being the sulky, wounded-pride Alpha and the next he’s closed up and reserved, as though she could’ve been anyone. 

Molly Hooper wasn’t about to have another Alpha throw her away. She wasn’t disposable, she wasn’t a toy to put up when play time was over. She grabbed Mycroft’s shoulder, shoving her insecurities deep down so they couldn’t play havoc with her intentions, and pulled him to her. He seemed taken aback. 

“Don’t make me wait long, Mycroft,” she growled, placing a light kiss on his cheek. 

She immediately turned on her heel to hide her red cheeks and ran back upstairs to her flat. 

That night, she laid on the sofa, thinking of her encounter with Mycroft, about how quickly he’d decided not to continue with their date, about how he’d simply jumped to conclusions and decided to end their relationship right then without any discussion. Or how he’d so easily trimmed her from his consciousness, how easily he’d cast her aside with next to no warning. 

_It’s fine,_ she told herself. _It really is fine that he went off. He had work to do._ But the look of shock when she’d grabbed him--like he’d forgotten she was there. She really didn’t want to be cast aside. She didn’t want a mate who would treat her as everyone else had. True, Molly Hooper was a long-suffering, patient woman who tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, but she’d spend her entire life placating others, trying to be what everyone needed, and it was exhausting. She didn’t want a mate who demanded that of her. She didn’t want a mate that would overlook her. 

_You were a bit relieved, though,_ she reminded herself. _You wanted to stay in and eat sweets and watch telly. You’ve your own selfishness to deal with as well._

“No,” she hissed, startling Toby off the sofa. “His treatment of me is not in anyway justified by my own selfishness. At least I was trying. Right, Tobes?” 

Toby rolled over onto his back, exposing his belly. It was a trap. Sometimes, the cat thought he wanted belly rubs; only, as soon as Molly obliged, Toby proceeded to lose his fucking mind and bite and scratch every bit of skin in reach. 

Was she like that? Was Mycroft? Were they both rolling over onto their bellies, only to scratch and bite at anyone who got near? Was she looking for reasons to end a relationship before it began or was she justified in being offended by his behavior? 

She wasn’t going to be his Manic Pixie Dream Omega, and she didn’t expect him to be the Cock That Heals All Wounds. 

She sighed. Toby rolled over onto his feet again and sauntered away. 

_I have too much of my own shit. I can’t be responsible for fixing his. His ego isn’t my concern. If he can’t talk to me like a big boy, this isn’t going to work out._

_________ 

Two days later, Mycroft called Molly. The hesitation in her voice tipped him off that she was, in fact, done with him. 

“Good afternoon, Molly.” 

“Oh, um, hi, Myc...croft.” 

He bit his lip. In his pettiness, he had snapped at her for using the shortened version of his name. It had been juvenile, and he wished desperately that he could undo it. Though, based on the sound of her voice right now, he would never have the chance. Molly Hooper, it seemed, was about to break his heart. 

_Don’t be absurd, Mycroft. It’s not heart-breaking. You barely know her._

_You called yourself a whore and presented your cock for the taking._

_She’s not a security risk._

“I’ve upset you,” he said softly. 

“No, it’s not--” 

“Surely you understand that my work must come first.” 

“It’s not that.” He heard her inhale deeply. “Mycroft, you’re very...distant. And you have to be and that’s fine, really it is. I just...don’t know if it’s something I can deal with. You don’t...communicate, and I’m too clumsy and dim to read you...and I just think this might be a waste of our time.” 

His mind raced. _Don’tdoit! Don’thangup! Alphaup! Pettypettypetty. Shehurtmyfeelings. Shehasapoint. You’reimportant; whoisshetotellyouhowtobebehave? Myhearthurts;justhangup._

“I see,” he growled, his voice cold. He promptly ended the call and was devastated when Molly didn’t try to call him back. 

_________ 

Two weeks passed, and Mycroft found himself in the sub-basement of Buckingham Palace, sitting at an overly bright room before Sherlock, John, and the nameless Detective Inspector that he sometimes had to call to rein in his brother. It had only been after he’d discussed the matter with Anthea that he realized he had no friends to help him work through this. No one to bounce ideas off. 

His brother, his brother’s handler, and his brother’s best friend were simultaneously, the bottom of the barrel and his best hope to either win Hooper back or get over the nagging iciness he’d felt in his chest these last two weeks. 

“I’ve gathered you here today regarding a very personal matter.” 

Sherlock groaned loudly before his brother could elaborate. He’d only shown up because the good doctor forced him. “You said this was important.” He jumped to his feet. “I’m leaving, John.” 

“Personal?” the silver-haired DI asked. “Like...you want us to go on a personal mission?” 

“No.” Mycroft scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve...I’m afraid I’ve quite made a mess of a potential romantic relationship, or, at the very least ruined a physical one.” 

“Oh mythical gods in heaven!” 

John grabbed Sherlock’s coattails and dragged him back to his seat, his gaze focused on Mycroft. He was intrigued. He had no idea the elder Holmes was capable of...whatever was happening with him. “So, you’ve been courting.” It wasn’t a question. He motioned to his own neck to indicate Mycroft’s. “Is that the, uh,--love bites.” 

The DI snorted as Mycroft’s spine stiffened and his hands went to cover his neck. Sherlock groaned again, as though in serious pain. 

“Please act like adults,” Mycroft snapped. 

“Anyone we know?” the DI asked. 

Sherlock, who had been leaning his chair on its back legs, landed on all four leg with a slam that echoed through the cold room. “Hooper. Christ, you’ve been sleeping with Molly Hooper.” 

“Where did you get that?” the DI demanded, positively stunned. 

“What? No!” John caught the reddening of Mycroft’s ears. “Really?” 

“Shut up,” the politician snapped again. 

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on his brother. “It’s obvious.” 

John glared at the consulting detective. “You only just found out! How is it obvious?” 

“Molly reeked of jasmine and sandalwood a few months ago, a departure from her usual cheap sweet pea bodywash--just after her heat. It’s a common enough wash, so I thought it was coincidental but Mycroft is consulting the three of us, so clearly it’s someone the three of us know. Had he elected to just invite _you_ , it wouldn’t been a personal matter regarding someone we don’t know, but the fact that he has included me, her previous object of desire, and Lestrade who works closely with her during investigations, it’s obviously Molly. Mycroft said ‘physical relationship’ meaning they’ve been intimate multiple times, though perhaps it hasn’t been emotional as long as its been physical. So, Mycroft, what did you do to piss off your goldfish?” 

“Goldfish?” 

“Yes, goldfish, keep up, Lestrade.” 

“Izzat like a pet name?” 

“No, it’s that everyone is slow and Mycroft finds them boring.” 

“Goldfish aren’t boring.” 

“You are driving me to suicide, Lestrade! Do shut up!” 

“Boys, let’s play nice,” John intervened. 

By now, Mycroft has mostly regained his composure. He cleared his throat, tapping his umbrella against the floor, winning the trio’s attention back to himself. “Recently, I endeavoured to begin a romantic relationship with Ms. Hooper. Our first outing did not go well.” 

“You ate all her dessert, didn’t you?” 

John tried to hide his laughter. 

Mycroft ignored the two of them. “I’ll admit my pride was wounded when I deduced that she didn’t want to go, and I may have behaved inappropriately, but in my defense, there were riots.” 

Lestrade leaned in, ever the protective DI. “Did you hurt her?” 

“Heavens, no.” 

“Just an emotional shut down that confounded her,” Sherlock answered, his voice icy. 

Lestrade relaxed, leaning back in his chair. “Happen often, then?” 

Sherlock shot his brother a pointed look. “Mycroft did quite well quelling any unnecessary feelings as a child. It’s why he is mummy’s favorite.” 

“She doesn’t have favorites,” Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. Clearly this was a conversation they’d had before. 

“Says the child that never got punished.” 

“I was well-behaved.” 

The Holmes brothers were staring each other down now, each trying to take up more space than the other. Tension had filled the room so suddenly, John was a bit amazed that the walls hadn’t given way. 

“Another word for emotionally stunted.” 

“So your violent temper, your tantrums, and drug abuse where all elements of your emotional well-being,” Mycroft shot back, leaning back in his chair as if to prove how little effect his brother’s words had on him. “Of course. Most well-adjusted human beings are carted away in handcuffs at the age of 15.” 

“All right, boys,” John growled. The Alphas backed off almost immediately. “We’re here to talk about Molly.” 

“Fifteen?” Greg cocked his head at Sherlock, brows furrowed. “That’s not on your record anywhere.” 

“Christ, Greg, let it go. Now, Mycroft, what happened? What did you do?” 

Mycroft glared at John. “I went to collect her. I deduced that she didn’t want to join me, offered her an out, and she insisted on coming. Unfortunately, before we made it to the car, I received a call from the water department--” Sherlock snorted at the obvious lie. “--and I had to return to my office immediately.” 

Lestrade frowned. “What do you mean you ‘deduced’ she didn’t want to go?” 

“Her hair was only barely done, indicating that she’d been running late. People who are excited about their dates are prompt and give themselves a buffer in their schedule to prepare properly. I certainly did. She’d been perspiring, stress induced, judging by the hold of her shoulders, which is another sign that she didn’t want to go. There was a five second delay between my knocking and her answering. I think these are valid points.” 

The Detective Inspector rolled his eyes, slouching to express his aggravation. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

John held up his hand to stave him off for just a moment longer. “So, what did you do when you figured that out?” 

“I told her that the date was cancelled.” 

The two Omegas groaned. Lestrade massaged his temples, grumbling about ‘fucking Alphas.’ 

“Did you apologize?” 

“For what would I apologize?” 

“For being a little shit and then abandoning her on your first fucking date,” Greg offered as though it was obvious. 

“I beg your pardon--” 

Greg shoved a finger in Mycroft’s direction. “No, you listen here, Holmes. As an Omega, I can tell you that nothing pisses me off more than when some knothead disrespects my time. You say 8:00, I expect you there at 8:00. Not 8:15, not 7:45. If I get my hair done and try to tame these damned crow’s feet, I expect something for my effort, like a fucking compliment or some goddammned flowers. 

“Always the romantic, Galahad. That’s why your Alpha left you.” 

“Galahad?! That’s not even close?! That’s 2 more syllables than my real name! You are actually wasting two more syllables of time and breath by _not_ remembering my name. How is that effective mind-palacing?” 

John slammed his hands down on the table to prevent another sidetracked argument. The other three’s attention returned to him. “So you were rude to Molly?” 

“I...suppose.” Mycroft didn’t want to admit it, because doing so meant that he also admitted that she had gotten beneath his armour and jabbed at his pride. 

“And you left her to visit your office about a cock-up with the ‘water department’?” 

Mycroft swallowed. “Yes.” 

“So, step one, apologize to Molly for not valuing her time and for letting your ego dictate your interaction with her. Step two, ask her if there’s anything you can do to make it up to her. If she agrees to another date, be genuine. If she says no, respect her decision.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “You act like I was some sort of monster! She didn’t want to go! How was I supposed to react?” 

Greg threw up his hands in exasperation. “You great moron! She wanted to go! That’s why she was getting ready! God, I hate Alphas.” 

“But she wasn’t...excited.” 

Greg growled, throwing his head back. “So, what you’re saying is that because you asked her out and she wasn’t floating on cloud nine all damn day, you got your knickers in a twist?” 

Mycroft tightened his lips. “No!” 

“Yes! God, typical Alpha. You giving her the time of day isn’t the greatest thing that’s ever happened to her, you prick! She has an entire life outside of you where bad shit happens, and as great as you think you are, her world doesn’t revolve around you!” 

John laughed, surprised by Greg’s tirade. Mycroft, on the other hand, was not amused. “Forgive me for wanting _my_ time to be valued.” 

“Yeah, at the expense of hers. She should completely ignore everything happening to her currently because she was on a date with some MI spook who thinks he’s God’s gift to Omegas.” 

John stifled his laughter as best he could, patting Greg’s shoulder. “Ok, ok, we’ve gotten way off. Let’s all calm down. Now, Mycroft, you’re really, and forgive me but there is no other way to phrase this, immature. Emotionally, you are five-years-old. You want everything to be about you, because for a long time, I’m guessing, it has been. You haven’t had to make room in your personal life for the wants and needs of the other person, am I right?” Mycroft only glared. “You need to acknowledge that, and then you need to realize that a relationship takes two people working together.” 

“Says the Omega married to the Alpha that shot me. Working together on that one were you?” 

John’s mouth clicked shut. 

“Relationships are meaningless, created to sell cards and engagement rings. Mycroft, you know this. Look at Grayson’s failed marriage--” 

“For fuck’s sake!” Greg roared. “At least pick one wrong name and stick to it, you bloody knothead!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've somehow switched the right-click and left-click functions on this mouse and it is basically ruining my life.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why Molly decides to give Mycroft a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a bit boring. I struggled with this one, guys, I'll be honest. But it was necessary. The next chapter will be more entertaining and hopefully won't take as long to write. You know a chapter is boring when even the author is a bit bored with it. 
> 
> Hang in there. Or wait until the next chapter is uploaded so you can have a reward!

Soft scratches at the flat door startled Molly out of her doze on the sofa in front of the television. She swallowed, staring at the door, watching the knob twist and turn as _click, click, clicks_ sounded from inside. Toby blinked at the door, tail swishing. Later, Molly would curse him, telling herself that a dog would’ve been a wiser decision for a single omega living alone in the city. For now, she could only focus on protecting herself. She picked up her phone and the empty wine bottle beside her and crept to the kitchen.

Suddenly, the door flung open, a dark figure emerging… 

And fluffing his black curls. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock!” she snarled. “What--” She reared the bottle backwards, ready to break it over his face before her sense of kindness and civility returned to her. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” 

“I’ve just attended the most boring meeting in the world, second only to John and Mary’s engagement party.” 

Molly blinked rapidly, aware that her eyes were burning from sleep (or lack thereof), her legs feeling numb from the sudden rush of adrenaline. “...was it a murder?” 

“You’ve terrible aim, Molly. If you’re looking for a weapon, you’re best option, given your height and weight and probable strength, would be a bat or some sort. Something long and solid for a series of attacks. Once you’ve thrown the wine bottle--” 

“Why are you in my flat?” she asked, her voice shakier than she wanted. “Is there--is John ok? And Mary? And My--” 

“You’ve been sleeping with my brother, which I’d no idea you had the stomach for, but I’m sure the Queen appreciates your efforts and sacrifices to her government--” 

Molly’s heart dropped again. “Excuse me?” 

“For God’s sake, Molly, you’ve just had a fright, you should be more alert.” He eyed the bottle still in her grasp. “Ah, didn’t take into account the alcohol. Tsk, tsk, Molly.” 

“Can we please get to the point, Sherlock?” she asked. “I’m really very tired, and I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t know how much longer I can stay awake, to be honest.” She flopped onto the sofa, patting the opposite side for her friend to join. 

“I prefer to stand. I won’t be long. I imagine Lestrade will be calling me in about twelve minutes. I’ve reason to believe a body has been found Ealing.” 

“You know, you could’ve just called, you know? Or knocked, maybe?” 

“John’s advised me that texting and calling after midnight is inappropriate unless it’s an emergency.” 

“It’s also inappropriate to break into someone’s flat. Even if it’s a friend’s.” 

Realization dawned on his face. “That would be why Mary was so angry at me last week.” 

Molly smiled and giggled. “What can I do for you?” 

“Ahem.” Sherlock started a slow back-and-forth pacing. “Mycroft. My brother. He’s, erm, rather upset about a certain Omega, an Omega I deduced was you. He admitted to being an arsehole, which unfortunately seems to be genetic, and...Oh God, what am I even asking?” His stride increased, the floor creaking each time he turned on his heel. “He’s...emotionally invested in you, Molly, and that’s not something that he does often, and so understand that this isn’t...just a “fling” as they say. He doesn’t “date” you understand. He...fuck, why is this so difficult to express?” The pacing was more frantic now. “He’s an absolute prat. He’s emotionally unavailable, married to his work, manipulative, and he...hovers, just hovers over you. Or he’s minions hover if he can’t be arsed to do it himself. He is literally always in someone else’s affairs.” 

He stopped, turning to look directly at her. His eyes were wide, his face red. “I don’t know what you could possibly see in him. He’s not traditionally attractive or personable. He’s actually rather boring.--” 

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. We’re not seeing each other anymore.” 

Sherlock scrubbed his hands through his curls. “But he wants to see you again. And...you give everyone more chances than they deserve.” 

Molly’s smile widened. “Are you here to plead on your brother’s behalf?” 

“No! No. If you want to stay away from him, as much as one can stay away from the shadowy hands of the British government, then by all means--he is rather terrible. Atrocious. And you’ll never keep sweets stocked--” 

“Sherlock, I appreciate the visit, but I’m really very tired and a bit drunk, so…” 

“Right. If you so choose to see him again, ahem, I have reason to believe...ugh, I have reason to believe that my brother...Mycroft...is an affectionate when inebriated.” 

Molly tried to stifle her laugh but the alcohol had dimmed her reflexes and response time. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, clearly uncomfortable. “Do with that information what you will. I’m not here to speak to his character. He is a rotten brother, and he always has been. But, erm, he tries. Sometimes. So, if you’d like to see another element of the elephant’s personality, inebriate him.” 

“That’s actually quite touching, Sherlock. I think you’re both sweeter men than you want others to know.” 

“Christ, Molly, don’t be so obtuse. The only vested interest I have in this is that your heats keep him occupied for three to four days at a time.” 

Molly felt her face warm. “Yes, well, I appreciate your breaking into my flat to tell me. Um, if you would, next time, maybe, just call ahead?” 

“You would prefer I call before entering? Even if it’s after midnight?” 

“That would be better, yes.” 

Sherlock grumbled something about “changing etiquette” and shut the door behind him, leaving Molly with only the sounds of muffled sounds of the television. The volume had been turned way down, most likely when Molly rolled over in her sleep. She sat for a long time, just staring, considering what Sherlock had said. 

They’d had a meeting. About her? Or about Mycroft? What had they discussed? If it was good advice, would Mycroft employ any of it? Had it only been Sherlock? Or had Mycroft called in John as well? Or that strange Alpha he was always driving around with? 

_Imagine Mycroft Holmes, warm and pliable beneath you, his sharp wit dulled, his body begging for soft touches...sweet, gentle pleas…_ Molly pushed the thought away. She’d told him that she didn’t want to pursue a relationship with him, and it seemed wrong to entertain thoughts of him now. They would need to have a discussion about heats. Mycroft really was a fantastic lover, and Molly really didn’t want to give that up if she didn’t have to. Hopefully, Mycroft would consent to sharing heats with her and nothing else. 

___________ 

Mycroft dreamt of Molly that night. He dreamt of his brother nuzzling against her neck, nibbling at the gland on her neck, the bonding gland. He dreamt of growling like a feral dog at Sherlock, of pulling Molly aside and begging her to reconsider. 

“Why? Why shouldn’t I choose Sherlock?” 

“Because...Molly, I have feelings for you.” 

She smiled sadly, cupping his cheek. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I need more than that.” 

He woke in a fury, hurling his pillows across the room in an attempt to exorcise some rage. It didn’t help. 

_What would I need to do to earn a second attempt at a date? -MH_

It was 4:13 in the morning. Chances were good that she was still asleep. Chances were also good that she would send some sincere “let’s just be friends” text that would devastate him. Damn her genuineness, her kindness. What human being was that kind? What was she playing at? Had he misread her? What if she’d somehow managed to hide her true feelings from her? What if she’d fooled everyone and she was really the fabled “S. Moran” that kept popping up in his Moriarty investigation? 

That was ridiculous. He’d been at her mercy multiple times, and nothing had happened. There had no information leaked, no chatter suggested she would betray him. 

John’s advice to “be genuine” terrified him. The various masks he’d molded around himself over the course of his twenty-year career had become part of his reality, a part of his psyche. Deception was who he was--being genuine was a paradox. It was like making a xerox of a mirror. Where did he end and where did the lies begin? 

And what did he have to offer her? Realistically, he wasn’t an overly desirable mate. Yes, he had status and money, but he wasn’t romantic. He could hardly be called a protector. He was flabby in all the worst places, weaker than at least half of his Alpha couterparts, and emotions frightened him, so he did away with them. 

_You’ve nothing to offer her,_ he told himself. 

_But I want her._

_It’s not enough._

________________ 

If anyone could find the real, genuine Mycroft Holmes, it was Anthea Cartwright, MI6’s head interrogator. Which is why Mycroft brought the matter to her over lunch. 

“So, you want her to confess something?” 

“No, I want to be open and honest and genuine.” 

Anthea shrugged her shoulders, not comprehending. “Then be that way.” 

“I don’t know how to outside her heat.” 

“Sir, I’m not sure what you want me to do.” 

“Pheromones alter my reactions and thoughts. They break down my inhibitions and defenses.” 

“So you want me to send her into a synthetic heat?” 

“You’re not usually this daft Anthea.” 

“I interrogate criminal masterminds, sir. I torture and drug and play mindgames, none of which I recommend on a first date. Or second.” 

Mycroft sighed. “Don’t you have anything that will...loosen my tongue? Make it easier to connect with another person?” 

“Therapy.” 

“You’re fired.” 

Anthea laughed, but it couldn’t quite hide her exasperation. “What do you want? LSD? Just buy some whiskey and get drunk out in a field somewhere until she’s the Omega Goddess Nefertiti.” 

“LSD.” 

“MI6 techniques cannot be used on civilians. Be a big boy, and act like a human. Get drunk if it helps.” 

_________________ 

Sometimes Mycroft Holmes phrased things in such a way that Molly really wanted to just shove him up against a wall and have her wicked way with him. 

_God, what is wrong with me?_

She could practically hear him asking, “What would I need to do to earn a second attempt at a date?” trying to hide his desperation. The deepest, darkest feelings always seem to come out at four a.m. though...it’s such a raw time in the twenty-four hour cycle known as “a day.” 

It was a genuine sentiment, his text. 

_Tell me something about you that has nothing to do with your job. Something that’s legitimate and real._

When her phone pinged a few moments later, butterflies formed in her stomach, and her heart started to race. She tried not to be disappointed that it was from Sherlock. 

_Cannabis would likely have the desired effect, you know. Mike Stamford knows people if you’re interested. -SH_

Her eyes widened. _Thanks for the advice, but I don’t think that will be necessary._

_I don’t recommend cocaine. -SH_

She could feel the old twinges of affection pluck at her heart. She’d given up on her quest to earn Sherlock’s love but if he put forth this much effort in ensuring his brother’s happiness--no. Molly shook her head. No, she’d been down that route more times than she could count. This was likely John Watson’s influence, not hers. Sherlock’s lover who loved another. 

_I appreciate your concern, Sherlock. It’s touching. :)_

_I’m not concerned. -SH_

“Good morning,” came the rather chirpy voice of one Mike Stamford, leaning against the threshold of her office door. “Sherlock said you needed to see me?” 

Her eyes widened again. “What? No. Did he say why? Well, he wants me to buy drugs from you--not--not you of course, but from someone you know. I don’t know. Either way, it’s not necessary. I don’t need any.” 

Mike threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, Sherlock. God love ‘im. For the record, I don’t know anyone who does that except some chemists. Can’t tell you all the tests HR’s made me take because of his mouthiness. Bless him. That poor, poor sod.” 

“I don’t do drugs, Mike.” 

The Beta laughed again. “Oh, love, I know. With a face like yours, no one would sell you any.” 

Molly couldn’t help but smile. “And does that mean exactly?” 

“You look too kind, Molls.” 

Her mouth twitched, feeling a weird pang of sadness. “Just look?” 

“You are too kind, too, love. That’s why you’re the only registrar who’ll work with Holmes.” He smiled warmly, patting her shoulder. 

Warmth blossomed in her chest at the affirming words just as her phone pinged again. She passed off a folder to Mike and read the text from Mycroft Holmes. 

_I prefer milk chocolate to dark chocolate. My mother actually terrifies me. My father loves bluegrass music and made me play spoons for his band until I was twelve. I then paid Sherlock twenty pounds to break my fingers so I wouldn’t have to play anymore. I had his beloved dog Redbeard put down when he was eight, and it still hurts sometimes. Redbeard was a good girl, and even though she wasn’t mine, I was glad I could be alone with her before she passed. That was the only time I ever wept in my adolescence. The first heat I spent with you was also the first time I hadn’t been completely miserable with a mate. After your lessons on kissing techniques, I researched the history of kissing more thoroughly. It was very strange. I had all evidence destroyed. While Sherlock was gone, I was so worried about him that I actually began having heart palpitations and shortness of breath. They were very minor episodes, and I was always back to the office in less than 48 hours, but I was advised to take up running, which I do now but I absolutely loathe. I don’t know what else I can offer you because frankly, aside from work, there’s not much to me. -MH_


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this chapter got split up into two parts. It wound up being much longer than expected. Like, I know it's actually not that long but I didn't mean to go this long without posting.
> 
> Enjoy!

Molly examined her DVD collection, a bit ashamed that it consisted mostly of Disney films and a few half-arsed attempts to supposedly modernize Jane Austen but really they existed only for profit. Mycroft had agreed to a “night-in” with a DVD, some wine and whatever else that might entail. Both had danced around the questions of _Are we okay? Are we going to sleep together? Are we going to actually going to have a “sleepover?”_ but neither had wanted to answer.

Molly had never been in a relationship that involved so much verbal dancing and coding and decoding meaning and looks and body language. Tom hadn’t been that bright, Jim had been entirely too eager to please to get to Sherlock, Miles had worked third shift so they rarely saw each other, and before that...before that she’d focused on her studies and dealt with her heats with chemical easers and toys. There had been a few random Alphas here and there, but they’d always run screaming when the Heat hit her hard. 

_You’re unnatural. You’re a mess. No one wants a bossy Omega. No one wants a lab mouse._

_Mycroft said I was fine. Uncommon but fine._

_Maybe something is wrong with him. Why else would he keep coming back?_

_No. No, stop it. We’re going to have a lovely night tonight, and I’m not going to be bossy, and he’s not gonna be all secretive and Holmes-y, and it’s going to be fine._

_...your tits are crooked, and that zit’s gotten to the size of a runway._

Molly cleared her throat, shaking her head to rid herself of negativity. She still hadn’t selected a film. She checked her watch. 

“Fuck,” she said under her breath. She’d been staring at DVDs for just under fifteen minutes. How did one pick a film for a Holmes? Did they even watch films? Did fiction have any meaning for them? 

She selected _Sword in the Stone_ , figuring it involved politics and history on some base level, so maybe he wouldn’t think it was total rubbish. 

_______________ 

Anthea had taken one look at her boss and laughed. “Bow ties are not your style, sir. Nor or they appropriate for a night in.” 

Mycroft had glared at her, hurling the offending article in her direction after ripping it from his neck. “And what would you recommend, oh Alpha Goddess?” he had snapped. 

And that was how Mycroft ended up owning a pair of khaki slacks (“No denim under any circumstances!”), some rather bizarre trainers, and a simple black t-shirt. When he looked in the mirror, he assumed death would be a better alternative. His expression must have tipped Anthea off. 

“Oh for God’s sake, you look great!” 

Mycroft blinked at the mirror before him. “I look like I should be stocking shelves at Safeway.” 

Despite the scratchiness of the materials, and despite the odd arch of the shoes, Mycroft found his stress melting away as he reached Molly’s door. Her faint scent wafted just outside her doorway along with the smell of baking sweets. There was something inherently comforting in her scent, and he could feel his shoulders relaxing as he got closer. 

He took a deep breath, letting the combination of smells ground him, and he reached up to knock. 

“Just a mo’!” Molly shouted from behind the door. 

Mycroft’s grip on the bottles of booze in each hand tightened. _No, it’s ok. This is acceptable. She’s simply not ready yet._

_Because she’s stalling because she doesn’t want to deal with your fat arse._

He shut his eyes tight, remembering the light peck on his cheek the last time he had been there. Oh...kisses. Kisses were simultaneously soul-shattering and spirit-building. He needed a kiss. He needed confirmation. 

_When she opens the door, I will kiss her._

_What if she doesn’t want kisses?_

_But I_ need _them!_

The door opened, the comforting smell only getting stronger, wrapping him in a mixture of security and concern that _I am not enough; I have nothing to offer._ Molly peered up at him with a shy smile. “Um, hi.” 

“Hello. May I come--” 

His words melted in his brain as she leaned up to brush her lips against his cheek. He pulled her closer, one arm instinctively wrapping around her waist. “Oh…” Molly managed, and time seemed to stop. Everything about her felt and smelt and sounded like warmth and security, like home. In that brief moment, he felt braver and stronger and just generally better because Molly made him better. He could be better because-- 

_Pshhaaaaaahhhhhhhh._

“Shit!” 

Molly pulled away and time sped up and Mycroft realized when he’d reached to embrace her, he’d completely forgotten how to coordinate himself and let go of the bottle of champagne in his hand. It was now bubbling up and spraying her door frame and floor. 

Mycroft wanted to disappear into the floor. Change his name and move to Guam. 

Molly disappeared into the flat only to reappear a moment later with towels and a dust pan. “It’s ok, it’s my fault, lemme just---” 

“Molly, I’m so sorry,” he croaked, kneeling to pick up the shards of glass. 

“No! Don’t pick it up with your bare hands!” Molly snapped, bustling him out of the way. “You’ll cut your hands to pieces!” 

“I’m sorry!” Mycroft answered, stepping back with his hands up. “I am so sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” she said, now more conscious of his embarrassment. “It really is fine. Fetch me a dust pan? You can set the other bottle on the counter.” 

Mycroft hurried past her into her kitchen, his interest piqued by the stronger scent of baked goods. Cinnamon rolls. Based on the tidiness of her kitchen (if Molly could ever be called “tidy”), whatever was baking in the oven had come from a can. Pity. The smell was falsely inviting, but after the rolls cooled, they would be spongey and saccharine, difficult to bite into and even harder to digest. There was a reason that Mycroft Holmes frequented only one bakery in all of England, that reason that he was a very picky eater. 

He returned to Molly with a dustpan and some towels, bending over to assist her in the process only for his knees to loudly pop. He blushed, thinking bitterly, _Yes, please, let’s remind Molly that there is a significant age difference by popping and groaning like an 80-year-old lech._ Molly didn’t seem to take note, and Mycroft couldn’t decipher anything from her expression. 

Once the wine and broken glass were cleared, Molly invited him to the sofa. “I’ll get the drinks. I’ve got some sweets in the oven, but I’m having takeaway delivered. You should know that I am an atrocious chef.” 

“I assumed. Some chemists understand the balance and art of cooking, others believe that substances of similar chemical make-up are appropriate replacements.” 

Molly laughed. “I’ve been guilty of that,” she admitted as she ducked into the kitchen. “Replacing butter with yoghurt if I was out, or using skim milk instead of butter milk…” 

Mycroft studied the room. Molly had mentioned a film and perhaps a card game with some wine. Unfortunately, the champagne had exploded, leaving only the Tullamore Dew Phoenix Anthea had recommended because it was strong enough to loosen his tongue and sweet enough to keep him thirsty. (Then she made a joke about hoping his date went better than hot-air ballooning in Tullamore.) 

Because alcohol was largely just empty calories, he avoided it whenever he could. The thought that he might have a ridiculously low tolerance both terrified and excited him. What if it lowered his inhibitions? What if it brought out the terrifying and mesmerizing Sex Goddess in Molly? 

_“You’ve been very naughty, Mycroft, breaking glass bottles all over my floor...I think I should send you to bed early.”_ He shuddered at the thought of Molly crowding him against a wall, relying on his swimmy head to keep him in place...sucking his neck, his nipples until he wept…. 

“Any requests?” Molly asked from the kitchen. “I don’t do whiskey all that often, so you may have to give me a recipe.” 

_Be honest._

“Erm, I don’t drink often, truthfully. The last time I had a drink stronger than wine, it was to celebrate the birth of the Queen’s grandson.” 

Another kind laugh sounding from the kitchen, and Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from puffing out his chest. He made his Omega laugh. 

_Not yours. Don’t be that antediluvian Alpha on the streets who shouts obscene things to Omegas and Betas._

“I’ll just try something a little sweet if that’s ok?” 

____________ 

Molly did, in fact, consume whiskey with some regularity. It’s just that she preferred to drink it straight from the bottle while listening to (and trying to imitate) Louis Armstrong in the bath after a long day dealing with formaldehyde, which wasn’t something she wanted to tell her Alpha just yet. 

_Nope. Not yours. He’s a dick, remember?_

_Yeah, but he’s gotta very pretty dick._

_OH MY GOD WHY? Shut up. Shutupshutupshutup._

She freely poured sugar into a pot of boiling water and added some honey. “I don’t know if this actually has a name but a friend on the rhetoric and debate team used to make these all the time. They aren’t bad.” She opened her cabinet to retrieve some decent glasses. 

All she found were some collector’s edition old fashioned glasses with scenes from 101 Dalmations etched on the side. She had two options. Use them and pray that Mycroft wouldn’t notice (not likely) or explain to him that she didn’t have cups suitable for adults because she mostly drank liquids straight out of the container because she’d lived alone for so long and hated doing the dishes (bad idea). 

“Mycroft?” 

“Yes?” 

A knock at her door interrupted them. 

“That’ll be the delivery man. D’you mind letting him in? I paid online.” 

While Mycroft handled the man at the door, Molly finished their drinks, adding the sugar and honey mixture over ice followed by the liquor and some fresh orange juice. She took a swig from the bottle, pleasantly surprised by the spiciness and the sweet finish. It was a very Mycroft drink. 

She took the cinnamon rolls out of the oven, and placed them on the counter to cool. 

When she returned to the living room, Mycroft was poking at the kebab dinner in the white styrofoam contained, making a face. Lovely. 

“Is something wrong?” 

He sat back suddenly, as though he’d been caught doing something wrong. “No. No, of course not. I was just--” 

“I know it’s not The Sketch, but I like it. Just give it a try? And if you hate it we can go out and get something else. Here.” She handed him his drink, which he of course he inspected, much to her dismay. 

“Are these...dogs?” 

_I am a total failure._

“Yeah, from the old Disney movie.” 

Mycroft furrowed his brow. 

Molly prompted him again. “ _101 Dalmatians_?” 

“They made that into a film?!” Mycroft looked offended. 

“It was something other than a film?” 

“It was book, if I recall correctly. I used to read it to Sherlock when Mummy was around. When she wasn’t, he insisted I read _Frankenstein_.” 

Molly blanched. “That...explains a lot.” 

“You know how demanding he is.” 

Molly simply nodded her head. “I used to read _The Borrowers_.” 

“And you have more friends than he does. What does that say about our reading choices?” He took a pull at the drink, smacking his lips afterwards. “That’s...remarkably sweet.” 

“Oh, good! It’s not awful?” 

“It’s not the highest quality sugar or honey, but it’s very nice all the same.” 

Molly frowned but decided it wasn’t worth the argument. He hadn’t meant anything by it, so she decided to push it aside. If this date went well, perhaps they could discuss his tactlessness. “So, I thought we’d watch _Sword in the Stone_. You know, to maybe give us something to talk about...and I am a very messy eater, so I was hoping to distract you with the movie.” She offered a shy giggle, picking the film up from the coffee table. 

________________ 

Mycroft was appalled at how the story of Merlin and Arthur had been boiled down to repetitive animation, simple songs, and a gratuitous talking owl. He was further appalled that the Kebab King had the gall to call his food palatable when it was really an amalgamation of tough, dry lamb and an excess of cumin and garlic. 

The drink itself was having the desired effects, though. His shoulders felt looser and his head lighter. He looked over at Molly, who had polished off the last of her box and was beaming against the bright light of the television screen. 

She looked relaxed, curled up against the arm of the sofa, her feet socked in blue wool. He wanted to rest his head against her thigh, to bask in her tranquility and feel loved and exhausted and blissed as he often did when he serviced her heats. Even now, there was subtle strength to Molly, something powerful in her vulnerability that he admired. 

Molly must’ve noticed his gaze on her, because she blushed brightly. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t singing was I? I’m a dreadful singer, and sometimes I sing along without realizing.” 

“No, no, not at all. I was just...admiring your socks.” 

Molly nodded to his empty glass. “Would you like another one? I’ve still got plenty of the syrup.” 

“I’ll do it,” he piped in, ready for any excuse to break away from this hellish film. 

“Oh. Um, ok.” 

Mycroft practically darted to the kitchen, both empty glasses in hand. His orientation felt slightly off, something to be expected, he assumed, but it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It was the mental equivalent of putting on his silk pyjama bottoms and climbing into bed under freshly laundered linens. If he’d consumed more of that horrendous meal, perhaps he would feel less...oh what was the word? Buzzed. Had he had lunch? 

Oh dear, the cinnamon rolls. They were long since cold by now, just one more thing that Molly would offer him that he would try and fail to muscle his way through. The poor dear clearly had no taste buds. 

The mixed drink was quite lovely though. He picked up the bottle, admiring the design of the label, wondering briefly why it was called “phoenix.” He poured a tiny amount into his empty glass, eager to taste the whiskey on its own. 

He groaned softly when it hit his tongue. It was warm and spicy initially, but melted into something sweet like toffee. It burned pleasantly on the way down and left his tongue tingling. Something about it reminded him of Molly. This was a very Molly-esque beverage. He poured another small shot for himself before setting to work on drink preparation. 

_It’s probably not wise for someone her size to consume so much alcohol so quickly. At a little over a meter and a half and roughly eight or so stones, she could get dehydrated and inebriated fairly quickly._

Mycroft opened her refrigerator to retrieve some oranges and a water bottle to take to the Omega when he returned to the living room. 

__________________ 

“Here, my dear,” Mycroft said as he handed her glass. “And this. You’ve had quite a bit of alcohol, so you should ensure you stay hydrated.” 

Molly quirked her eyebrow. “Quite a bit? I had one drink.” 

He looked down at her with very solemn concern. “Yes, but you are physically small and light, and I would be devastated if you got sick after our first date.” 

_Oh my God,_ she laughed internally as the realization that Mycroft Holmes was entering that state of minor inebriation hit her. She took a sip of the water to humor him, patting the sofa beside her. “Thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate your concern.” 

“I don’t want you to get sick,” he repeated. 

“I don’t want that either, Myc. Come sit with me.” 

Mycroft obeyed, still sober enough to maintain his feline grace and poise. Molly could feel his eyes on her, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. His gaze wasn’t an entirely sexual one; it was one of study and caution. He was planning something, she deduced. _Planning and strategizing the best way to get something._

She looked back at him, and belatedly his eyes dropped away. With some hesitation, she stroked his cheek with the back of her knuckles. “Something wrong, lov--Myc?” 

He pushed into her touch like a dog getting ear scratches. “No,” he said, his voice surprisingly still and strong. He turned his attention back to the screen. “This movie, perhaps. Why is that female squirrel harassing Arthur?” 

Molly laughed. “She loves him.” 

“Squirrels aren’t capable of love. Squirrels can hardly remember where they’ve buried their food.” 

“It’s just a movie, Mycroft.” 

“I can’t believe Merlin is just standing aside while the future king of England is sexually assaulted by a squirrel.” 

“It’s just a movie.” 

“It has a cultural impact.” 

Molly raised an eyebrow. “Is that a passive aggressive way of saying that I harrass you the way the girl squirrel harrasses Arthur?” 

He gave her a sidelong glance. “That’s not what I meant at all.” 

Molly was quiet for a long moment. “Are you sure?” 

“I am doing everything in my power to be honest with you. It’s difficult to suddenly not speak in layers, but I’m trying.” 

“You think I’m weird.” 

“No, I think you’re slow.” 

Molly’s skin suddenly felt warm. She gritted her teeth. “Excuse me?” 

“You’re slow. Everyone’s slow. Even Sherlock.” 

She laughed again, unsure how to process this information. “I’m sorry?” 

“Sherlock is dubbed a genius because other people aren’t as intelligent as he is. Yet he requires an assistant and a mind palace and a handler whose name he routinely forgets. I require none of those things. Why? Because I’m smarter.” 

Molly’s anger subsided with the explanation, but the offense wasn’t entirely gone. “So, if I’m so dumb, why are we even trying this out?” 

“Because you’re kind. My brother came to you for help, and you never even batted an eye. Because when you’re...in need, you’re vicious and fierce and in control and I don’t have to be. I trust that you are a just, gentle Omega even when you’re leaving bruises on my chest.” 

Another long pause. Molly brought her drink to her lips, letting it warm her tongue and throat, helping her settle back into the world of Arthur and Merlin and Archimedes. “Thank you, Mycroft.” 

He gave her a lopsided smile before reaching for her water bottle. "Drink some water, Molly, you'll make yourself ill."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave comments for +1 karma


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drunken pillow talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so, lemme just say, that I have 100% had a friend got drunk at my dorm and then clean the EVERYTHING. It was weird because I usually just fall asleep when I've had too many, but, lemme tell you, she went for it. And I thought, I have to incorporate this somehow...

Mycroft was dozing when the film ended, his drink half-gone. He looked a bit silly, his head back, mouth open, and snoring oh-so-softly. Molly reached out to stroke his hair, glad that whatever product he used wasn't thick and sticky. Instead, she could feel the almost child-like softness. Somehow, despite being hyperfocused on the Alpha during her heats, she'd missed how fine his hair was, thinner around the temples and forehead, perhaps, but it suited him.

Somewhat belatedly, he started. "Molly," he croaked. "I'm terribly sorry, I must've..." 

There was something positively delicious about the man right now. His eyes were bleary and unfocused and his cheeks were pink from drink and sleep...innocent and reserved and oh-so-corruptible. She could almost hear his soft cry and shocked expression if she jerked downward on a handful of auburn locks. 

She shook the thought away, electing the focus on the swell of adoration blooming in her breast. "Was it that bad? The movie?" 

"Ghastly," he yawned. 

"Would you like some cinnamon rolls?" 

He blinked, his eyes scanning quickly over her face. "Forgive me, but I must decline." 

"Why? I made them just for you." 

He groaned, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "No, no, my diet." 

Molly scowled. "You can run it off, I'm sure." 

"No. No. I don't...Molly, I don't care for frozen, premade, out-of-a-can desserts. They're...wrong. Their texture is wrong, their mouthfeel and density is wrong, and the taste...There's too much salt for one, and far too many preservatives. They are a chore to consume, and desserts and puddings should never be a chore." 

Rolling her eyes, Molly brushed past him to go to the kitchen. "Fine. More for me." 

"I hadn't intended to upset you." 

Molly sighed. "I know, I know. You Holmeses never do." 

________ 

Mycroft followed her into the kitchen and was alarmed by how much alcohol was missing from the bottle. Oh, his dear small Omega was going to be so ill in the morning. _And she'll associate me with that and I'll never see her again._ The thought made his stomach drop. 

_Food. Food and water._

"Let me teach you." Her eyes met his, not comprehending his meaning. "How to make cinnamon rolls. It's a recipe from a gentleman I met in New Orleans. He owns an exquisite bakery." 

She raised her eyebrows suggestively. "Is this courting behavior?" 

Before she even finished her question, he felt his face heat up. "No, no, no. Of course not. I mean, yes, by extension of my being here, but no--I'm not trying to seduce you with my culinary expertise." 

Molly laughed again, snorting this time. The poor girl was well on her way to drunk. Mycroft reached into the cabinet behind her, retrieving a glass and filling it with water from the tap. "Here, here. Drink some water. Please." 

"Mycroft! I am not thirsty!" 

"You should stay hydrated." 

"I'm plenty hydrated!" 

"You're going to be hung over in the morning!" 

Molly gaped. "Sweetheart, I drink a lot more than this on a typical Friday night. My mum's Irish. I can handle myself." 

The Alpha sighed, shaking his head. "It'll be okay, I suppose. I'll simply check on you in the morning." 

"Hm." The Omega lifted the bottle, swishing its contents around to indicate the room at the top. "I think perhaps I'll be checking on _you_ in the morning." 

He stopped dead in his tracks, brows furrowed in confusion. "I beg your pardon?" 

She gnawed on her lip a moment, a tell that she was torn between two actions. _Debating whether or not to be polite or be honest._ "I think you had a few pulls on your excursion to the kitchen in the middle of the film." 

Mycroft blinked, steadying himself on the smooth surface of the island. "I am much taller than you, and if I must say so, much weightier." 

Molly snorted. "Weightier?" 

"I have more weight than you." She studied him a moment longer. "What?" he prompted. 

"I can't tell if I'm angry at you for bossing me or flattered that you're so concerned about my well-being." 

_Bossing. You're being bossy. Stop it. Stop being bossy._

_But I'm supposed to be honest!_

_Wait, am I bossy? Just naturally bossy?_

_Of course not, you simply know better than everyone else and if you truly care about this Omega, you will tell her what she doesn't know. Because that's how people care for each other._

_Caring is not an advantage._

_And yet here you are. Again._

"Why've you gone silent?" Molly's eyes were darting up and down, studying him again, searching for something wrong, wondering if she had said something wrong. 

"Thinking." 

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. You're not bossy. Well, you are bossy, but..." 

"May I ask you something personal?" 

Her eyes widened. "Erm. Yes? Sure. I mean, I reserve the right not to answer, but honestly, I can't imagine what you _don't_ know about me." 

"Do you doubt yourself so often because you have dominant urges outside of heats or because you only have dominant urges during heats?" 

She was chewing on her lip again. "I...I don't understand the question." 

"I'm trying to understand your disposition. I'm afraid I don't entirely." 

Molly sighed heavily, reaching for one of the mismatched chairs around her rarely-used dining table. She motioned for him to follow suit, and he obeyed. The change in elevation didn't immediately catch up with Mycroft's parietal lobe, and it felt very strange to be sitting and feeling so tall at the same time. He leaned back into the chair until the feeling passed. Molly sighed again, her nose scrunched up in thought. "We're being honest, right?" 

"Of course." 

"Let me make sure I understand your question. You want to know if my heats make me different or if it, oh what's the word, reveals who I really am?" 

"Yes." 

"That's a big question. I mean, can any of us separate who we are from our biology? Our chemistry and our hormones--" 

"No, no, no, Molly, that's not what I am asking. Who are you? Why does such a kind lab mouse have so few friends?" 

She glared at him. "I have friends, thank you very much." 

"You're lonely." 

"I work a lot." 

"So do I. I find everyone terribly boring so I keep myself busy with puzzles and problems and work. I use my brain to further the missions of the British nation. While I do find it 'lonely' it's a better alternative to feigning interest in a neanderthal of a mate. I've been honest; now you." 

Her shoulders sagged, and Mycroft wanted to dash to her side, to rub her shoulders and tell her that she didn't have to answer. But he could also tell that if he was silent just a moment longer, she might break. She might tell him something. "Where'd this come from?" 

"You said I was bossy. I want to understand your bossiness levels." 

"You can't deduce them?" 

"You're stalling." 

"Because I don't know, Mycroft! I mean, maybe, yes, I have a snarky inner monologue sometimes...sometimes I find myself wanting to tell other people what to do. Who doesn't, though?" 

"Why do you not act on it? Why do you let others dictate what you do? You mustn't let gender stereotypes and society tell you what is appropriate behavior--" 

"It's not that, Mycroft. I just...I just want to be nice. I could be mean and bossy and Alpha-y and maybe people would treat me with more respect--but I'd rather be nice. No, it doesn't pay off sometimes, and sometimes I get talked over, but...I'd always rather be nice. Everyone wants to encourage Omegas to act like Alphas, but the way I see it, Alphas have been in charge of the world for thousands and thousands of years, and they've not brought the world to a good place. So, yes, I could act on my nature and be like you, but it's not what I want. It's not something I want to be remembered for. I want to encourage people, and help them. It's more than just society and gender roles, Myc. It's...it's about caring about people. There are seven billion other people on this planet, and if a word of kindness can make someone's day less shitty, then why not? I don't know. That sounds dumb, doesn't it?" 

"It does. But it's heartfelt and genuine and intriguing. But you do feel...more dominant than you let on?" 

"I feel like I'm a person before I'm an Omega. Alphas always want to boil it down to dominant/submissive, but that's not the real dichotomy--it's a matter of helping and hurting." 

"You think I hurt people?" 

"I know that when you shut me out on our date the other day, it hurt me. It was like I wasn't even there." 

Mycroft shifted his gaze to the table top, guilt weighing heavy on his shoulders. "My apologies. That wasn't--" 

"No, don't apologize. It's fine. I'm sorry, this whole conversation is just weird, and I don't know exactly what it is that I'm trying to say except that I'd rather smile at someone than posture and defend territory." 

"You know there are medical programs where you can transition--" 

"No, I'm quite happy being an Omega." She looked down at her feet. "Are you not? Happy with me being an Omega?" 

"The only time my mind is ever silent is when I'm servicing your heats," he answered, his tone matter-of-fact. "Christ, Molly, you've almost consumed half the bottle! You should drink some water." 

Molly laughed exasperatedly, grabbing his wrists as he stood. "I swear to God, Mycroft, if you bring me another glass of water, I will cut your fingers off and send them to your bother." 

His eyes widened to the size of saucers. "I beg your pardon?" 

"I'm sorry! I am so sorry. That was rude. I'm sorry. I'm nice. I'm a nice person." 

"You seem to misunderstand the meaning of 'nice.'" 

"No, I'm sorry. I am." She reached out for his hand, cupping it between both of hers and staring up at him. "I'm sorry. To answer your question--well, to continue to answer your question, I--I doubt myself because I want to be nice. I want people to like me." 

"How anyone could not surpasses even my understanding." Mycroft offered her a crooked smile. "You really should let me bake for you. I am quite good." 

Molly was blushing again. She kissed the top of his hand, then gently tugged him downwards. He followed her silent direction, slowly kneeling. His heart was pounding. He'd been here before. He'd been at this Omega's feet before. _Oh my God, and no one else's. No one else's._ He licked his lips, eyes boucing back and forth across the image of her, trying to determine a motive, a need, a desire anything. Why was he on his knees again? What did she do to him that made him so pliable? Why was his voice gone? When was the last time she'd swept or mopped? Why didn't this woman have a housekeeper? 

Her gaze averted. Fingers grazed his cheek, timid at first, then with more certainty as her welcome to touch became clear. She was nervous, though, he could feel it in the small tremors of her knuckles. _Say something!_ he screamed at himself, but couldn't find his voice. 

"You don't...ahem, you don't have to be 'on' all the time, Mycroft. It's okay to let someone else be on guard." 

_Alphas don't let Omegas be 'on guard.'_

_Oh shut up, that is blatant sexism, and you know it._

_It's biological._

_It's archaic._

Fingers threaded through his hair, and almost instantly, the argument in his head quieted. He shut his eyes, bowing his head almost imperceptibly. 

____________ 

Molly was fucking terrified. _What are you doing? What is your plan here?_

_I don't fucking know but he's going with me on this so..._

_This is how people go missing, Hoops. They fuck with the British Government and get carted away to Dartmoor to be experimented on._

_He's just as confused._

The beautiful Alpha, on his knees, looked calm. Tranquil. His eyes were closed, and he was waiting. She hadn't realized it until just then, but there seemed to be something constantly buzzing about Mycroft. Not like Sherlock, who was constantly bouncing off the walls, desperate for attention and the next adrenaline rush, but like a pot left to simmer. Even if he hated legwork, he was constantly in motion mentally, always two steps ahead of everyone else. Always worrying about Sherlock, worrying about Dr. Watson, even worrying about Mrs. Hudson. What else did this poor Alpha have on his shoulders? 

But now...he was so still. Perfect and handsome and quiet. _My Alpha,_ some primitive part of her brain growled. 

"Um, Myc?" she asked, her voice trembling. 

"Hm?" 

"Would you feel better if you baked something?" Blue eyes opened lazily and met hers. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but...if it would make you feel better that would be okay, I suppose." 

"We're being honest?" 

"Erm, yeah. Yeah." 

"I would like to bake for you because you have had so much alcohol and I'm afraid you're going to die if you don't eat something. Also, you should drink some water. You're going to be ill." 

Molly shoved him away playfully. "Nope, go away. None of that. I don't have time for that sort of bullshittery. Go make me some cinnamon rolls." 

Mycroft gave her a grin, albeit a shy grin. He got to his feet, wobbling on the way up, and dusted off his knees. "Oh God, Molly, you'll sweep whilst I bake. This floor is disgusting." 

Molly groaned. "No, I hate sweeping." 

"Clearly. Hop to it. And finish what remains of that water." 

__________ 

Three hours later, Mycroft Holmes was sprawled out on the sofa, head swimmier than before. He'd clutched at Molly's hand, suddenly acutely aware of the Earth spinning thousands of miles an hour through space. Molly had praised his cinnamon rolls, and to compound the flooding warmth in his chest, he'd made another drink, this time with more whiskey than sugar water or juice. And then Molly had brought the bottle into the living room and the two had passed it back and forth like Mycroft had seen countless homeless people while he watched through CC television. 

Molly was still holding his hand. He was invincible and he was powerless. Mimicking her earlier action, he brought her hand to his mouth and placed a small peck on her wrist. 

"I'm so sorry I cleaned your whole kitchen," he slurred. 

"I'm so sorry it was that bad." 

"Molly?" 

"Yep?" 

"I think I should drink some water." 

Molly burst out in peals of laughter. "Is my poor, pretty Alpha a teensy bit drunk?" 

_Your Alpha. I'm your Alpha. I'm Molly Hooper's Alpha._ His brain clung to the possessive pronoun. "Maybe. Possibly. I don't know how. You drank more than I did." 

"No, no I didn't," she laughed as she made her way back to the kitchen. The two rooms still smelt of cinnamon sugary goodness. Almost like Christmas. She returned with a glass of water, handing it to the Alpha. 

"I think it's denning behavior. I think I'm trying to build a nest or a den for you. Make sure it's clean and safe and well-stocked." He sighed heavily. "I just want you to like me." 

Molly reached up to smooth back his hair. He leaned into the touch. "I like you very much. You're an arse sometimes, but you're also very sweet." 

"You make me feel so powerless, if we're still being honest. Did you know I executed an Alpha today? Very unfortunate, the whole thing. Part of the Swiss government, but he could've ruined decades worth of diplomacy between Maldova and Haiti. I do this every day. I play God every day of my life. And I'm damned good at it. And yet...this small ginger lab mouse accosts me when I try to send my brother away to Eastern Europe, and I'm paralyzed. How do you do it, Molly? How have you become the most powerful person in the entire world? It's actually sort of terrifying." 

Molly giggled, placing a kiss to the tip of his nose. "I'm not, sweetheart." 

"You are, though. Because I am the most powerful person in the world, and in a moment, at your request, I would give you the moon. The actual moon. I own property on the moon, actually. I mean, it's only theoretical, there's not much I can do to enforce my ownership, but I would buy Putin's and Museveni's properties. If you asked." 

Molly's sweet giggle soaked into him, making him feel heavier, like he'd been covered in layers of quilts. "I don't want the moon." 

"What do you want?" 

"I don't know." 

The two sat in silence for a long moment. Molly screwed the cap back on the alcohol then sat back, lacing her fingers with Mycroft's again. He studied the pattern of her long, chemical stained fingers after his own soft, pale ones. "I am sorry about that, you know." 

"Sorry? About what?" 

"The first time...that we were, well, together. I had just switched over to some new birth control. My heat just sort of...sneaked up on me." 

"You looked like the wrath of God embodied," he said, remembering fondly. 

Molly felt her cheeks heating up. "I'm sorry. I should've known you would take care of your brother." 

"I'm sorry I was such bad...er, lover." 

Molly snorted, nearly choking on her own laughter. "You weren't a bad lover. You were a bad kisser." 

Mycroft rolled over, groaning at the memory. "I'm sorry." 

"It's okay, love, you've gotten much better." 

"Pardon the vulgarity, but as they say, hell yeah I have. I've studied. I've done a lot of studying." 

"You told me. Said you'd destroyed the evidence." 

"Ugh, if Anthea ever saw, she'd never let me live it down. She goes through Omegas and Betas the way some people go through packs of crisps." 

Another companionable silence. "It...it worried me that first time. You looked so lost...and I enjoyed it so much. No one had ever looked at me like that. I felt...I felt stronger than I'd ever felt. And I just...I wanted you to be afraid in some ways. I worried there was something wrong with me...that the new medication had made me psychotic or something. And then you came back when I called...and then you came back again...and again. And then I bought you brolly pants." 

"I hate those pants." 

"You should wear them." 

"I am." 

Molly sputtered, sitting straight up to look at the drunk Alpha sprawled on the sofa. "What?" 

Mycroft groaned again, hiding his face in his hands. "No." 

"Are you wearing them?" 

"No. Yes. No." 

"Oh my God, let me see!" 

"No!" 

"Let me see!" she said again, tugging at his arm. 

He whined. "No, I haven't followed my diet accordingly and with all the alcohol and curry and cinnamon I've consumed tonight, I know I won't be a vision of beauty." 

Molly snuggled on top of him, feeling sure of her welcome by now. "Okay," she said with a kiss to his chin. "Okay, that's fine." She kissed his lips, and he moaned against her mouth. "But next heat, yeah?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I can't remember where I was going with this...and I'm sorry. I feel like it's really obvious. I think at one point, I had planned for Mycroft to get hit on by some other Omega and Molly get really jealous and yada yada yada, but I lost my outline and I can't remember how I thought I'd end this. 
> 
> So...yeah, ten points to my house for being a prat.


End file.
